But if the hand of man had ever wrought this one, it had been in ages long past, of which no record remained.  The soft hand of nature had filled up the gaps and seams with creeping plants and bushes, and all deformities were hidden by her magic touch.  Around the sides of the amphitheatre were twenty to thirty low huts of osier work, twined around tall posts driven into the ground and cunningly daubed with stiff clay.  In the centre of the glade was a great fire, evidently common property, for a huge caldron steamed and bubbled over it, supported by three sticks placed cunningly so as to lend each other their aid in resisting the heavy weight, in accordance with nature’s own mechanics, which she teaches without the help of science {25}.

Before the fire, on a sloping bank, covered with the softest skins, lay the aged chieftain whom we met before.  But now seven years had added their transforming touch, tempus edax rerum.  His tall stature was diminished by a visible curve in its outline.  His giant limbs and joints were less firmly knit.

A light hunting shirt of green, confined around the waist by a silver belt, superseded the tunic of skins we saw him wear before, and over it was a crimson sash.  These were doubtless the spoils of some successful fray or ambush, for the woods did not produce the tailors who could make such attire; and in the belt was stuck a sharp, keen hunting knife, and on his head was a low, flat cap with an eagle’s feather.  There were eagles then in “merrie Sussex.”

“Whom hast thou brought, Kynewulf?  What cattle are these?”

“Guests, good captain,” replied Martin, “who have come far to seek thee, and who have brought thee a special message from the King of kings.”

Grimbeard growled, but he had his own ideas of hospitality, and had his deadliest enemy come voluntarily to him, trusting to his good faith, he could not have harmed him.  So he conquered his discontent.

“Hospitality is the law of the woods.  Stay and share our fare, such as it is, the pot luck of the woods, then depart in peace.”

“Not till we have delivered our message.”

“Ah, well, my merrie men are the devil’s own children, but if you will try your hand at converting them I will not hinder you.”

Not a word was said before dinner, and Martin, feeling that after partaking of their hospitality they would be upon a different footing, said but little.  But the curiosity which was excited by his knowledge of their names and of this their summer retreat was only suspended for a brief period.

The al-fresco entertainment was over, the dinner transferred on wooden spits from the caldron to huge wooden platters.  Game, collops of venison skilfully roasted on long wooden forks, assisted to eke out the contents of the caldron.  Strong ale, or mead, was handed round, of which our brethren partook but sparingly.  When the meal was over Grimbeard spoke: